


Puzzle Pieces

by noelia_g



Series: Fragments [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3198302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in between, from the relationship of Evelyn Trevelyan and Cullen Rutherford. From Haven to Skyhold and beyond, in pieces big and small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on my Inquisitor, vaguely default Evelyn Trevelyan with some headcanony pieces of backstory. Her side of the story.
> 
> Falls in between of the canon relationship arc and the main storyline, as well as of From Here to After, though reading that part is not necessary and both fics work as standalones.

Snow and ice are something of a novelty to Evelyn Trevelyan. Well, at least the kind of snow and ice that doesn’t start at her fingertips and disappear when not needed anymore. 

The only real winter she can remember came over Ostwick when she was six, a rare occurrence in the temperate Free Marches. It was the kind of winter she read about before but had never seen, with snowball fights and roaring fires at home, and makeshift ice-skates made for her and her brothers by Marvin, who hauled from Ferelden and looked after their horses.

Later, in the circle, it turned out she naturally took to elemental spells; at ease with both ice and fire. They didn’t really have proper winters when she was growing up there either, but when she was fifteen, she and a few other apprentices managed to convince Enchanter Lydia (not yet Senior then and so much more easily convinced to do something _fun_ ) to freeze over the small lake on the grounds for them.

Her friend Marianne, who grew up near the Frostback Mountains and was at home to most severe winters used to tell her they weren’t that much fun, not the blistering cold and not the long, dark nights, but for Evelyn it used to be something out of a fairy tale.

She has what she wished for now, she supposes, not at all as she imagined it. But if there’s something she doesn’t mind, it’s the cold and the ice. After years of studying to master them, they at least are old friend. 

Someone is making their way over the frozen lake now, over from Haven and towards her, every step cautious and slow. She wonders why the man wouldn’t walk around the lake, but it becomes clear when he gets closer and she recognises Haym.

He’s a former Templar recruit, something he made sure to mention in their very first conversation. Left the order before he took his philter, following his sister to the Inquisition. His mage sister, whom he first followed to the Circle, as soon as he could after her magic manifested. Haym is easily a head taller than any other man in Haven, with shoulders to match, and he’s slow and careful and makes sure that she always sees him coming, hands empty and a friendly smile. And the only way to approach her at the moment while staying in full view, is right across the lake.

Evelyn smiles back now, as he steps over the rocks frozen in the ice by the pier she’s sitting on. 

“My lady. The horses from Master Dennet arrived. The Commander sent me to tell you, said you might want to see them.”

Of course he did. Told Haym where to find her too, she’s sure. “I’ll be right there,” she says with a smile and shifts to the side, allowing Haym to climb the pier and start making his way back, now walking around the lake on solid ground. 

She’s still not quite sure what to make of the Inquisition’s Commander. The feeling seems to be mutual, too. 

Everyone watches her, all the time. Inquisition’s camp, on the road, in Hinterlands. She’s never quite alone, not even when she wanders half-aimlessly around Haven and tells herself it’s to pick up elfroot and not to test the leash as she moves further and further. 

Some watch her with wariness, with barely hidden fear, with suspicion. Some watch her as if she had all the answers, as if she could bring salvation and Maker’s grace and whatever else they see in the damned green glow. It doesn’t matter, it still feels the same, the itching on her neck and the twitch in her fingers. She’s studied and measured and dissected, pinned down. 

Cassandra promised her there’d be a trial, that first day, and though she never spoke of it again, this is it; the constant test she knows she’ll keep failing, because she doesn’t even know what she’s being measured against.

She pokes and prods in return, to what extent she can. She started learning the balancing act of conversation when she was much younger, and if the Circle taught her anything, it is how to test your limits before overstepping. This might not be the application either of her tutors foresaw, but here she is and this is what she’s dealing with.

And then there’s Commander Cullen. Her thoughts inevitably circle back to him as she’s making her way around the lake, and she sighs. She pokes and prods and he apologises. He watches her warily and then sends Haym to find her, of all the people. Insists on seeking the Templars’ help and with the next breath cuts himself off from the Order. 

He puzzles her, and Maker’s breath, she’s always been too intent on solving puzzles. Word games and little wooden logical toys her brother sent her and now those frustrating astrarium things they’ve discovered in the Hinterlands and, well, _him_.

“Ah, Herald, here you are,” he says, falling into step with her as she heads towards the stables. “I don’t know what spell you used to convince Dennet to join us, but he found some remarkable…” he stops himself, as if his ears caught up with his tongue. “I did not mean that literally.”

“Mostly fire spells, they do wonders against wolves,” she tells him flatly. “Well, against most things, and people, really,” she adds, just to see his reaction. He frowns before nodding; he’s read the report then. It took a little more than that, of course, but the results, now before her, are more than worth it.

She moves to stand before her mare’s box; she has a few temporary companions now and does not seem pleased with the situation. “Spoiled so soon, it’s really tragic,” Evelyn mutters and pats her pocket for the sugar cubes. It earns her a whinny that could be taken as a reproach. “Don’t worry, girl, you’ll be left to your peace and quiet soon,” she says soothingly, running her hand down her mane. 

Another hand moves briefly above hers, patting the horse’s head almost absently. When she looks at Cullen he has this fond expression on his face, his eyes warm. Another small piece of a puzzle ( _likes horses_ ) slots itself into the place and she fishes out one more cube from her pocket and hands it over to him. The horse is already mouthing for it when she hands it off, her fingers brushing Cullen’s briefly. 

She stuffs her hand into her pocket, ignoring the way her fingertips itch. It’s sudden heat to a numb limb, searing and unexpected, the kind of sensation when you can’t quite distinguish if it’s hot or cold, the burn feels the same.

Another piece of the puzzle slots itself in. 

***

Somehow she’s become extremely familiar with Cassandra’s sleeping pattern. They are on the road more often than they are in Haven and they share the tent, it’s not that surprising. What is a little surprising, Evelyn supposes, is how easily Cassandra falls asleep, even in, or especially in Evelyn’s presence.

She’s practically asleep when her head hits the bedroll, her breath evening out in a steady rhythm. It’s been this way even at the beginning, even when during the days her eyes were following Evelyn’s every move in assessment, wondering if she had done the right thing in trusting her.

In a way, Evelyn trusted Cassandra since the beginning, since the Seeker took the knife to cut her bonds. And then, after, when on a hunch she decided to lower her weapon under Cassandra’s glare, following the gut feeling that told her the Seeker would not let her walk into a fight unarmed. She is sure of Cassandra’s fairness, of her intentions, and isn’t this something like trust?

She’s never been so desperate to trust before, but then again, her life has never depended on others so much.

She listens to Cassandra’s steady breathing as she sits up and searches for her boots in the darkness, covering herself in one of the blankets and picking up her staff, just in case. Quietly, she pushes away the flap of the tent and crawls outside. The fire is out and she doesn’t bother to start it again, but sits on the log Varric dragged close to it yesterday.

Cassandra’s easy, tired out sleep is enviable, to be honest. Evelyn doesn’t sleep easily anymore, hasn’t since the Conclave. It’s not nightmares per se, or if they are, she never remembers them. There’s an emptiness in her thoughts, in her dreams, a gaping hole of nothing. She can glimpse the edges of unease and worry but there’s nothing beyond, nothing at all. It’s… unsettling.

“It will be light soon,” Cassandra says from behind her. She walks around Evelyn to sit down on the other side of the fire spot, looking up at the sky. There’s a grayness on the edges of the horizon that will bring forth the dawn soon, but for now it’s dark and quiet, no birds perking up just yet. 

Cassandra’s presence is not surprising and not unwelcome; Evelyn has half-expected her, to be honest. Nowadays it’d probably feel strange if she _hadn’t_ have someone watching her carefully.

“Is something the matter?”

Evelyn snorts quietly and shrugs. How do you even begin to answer this kind of a question? Cassandra catches her gaze and inclines her head a little. It’s hard to read the expression on her face in the darkness, but Evelyn imagines she’s smiling dryly.

“We should set out at first light. Varric will complain, I’m sure, but this way we could be in Redcliffe by late morning.”

She nods, looking at the burned out coals in the firespot. “Do you think we were always going to end up here?”

“You were the one who wanted to make the stop to look for some of the Warden camps,” Cassandra tells her flatly and she is _probably_ willfully misunderstanding her for the sake of a gentle joke, but you can’t always tell. “The mages _are_ our best option. And Grand Enchanter Fiona did invite us,” she reminds Evelyn. 

It’s nothing she hasn’t told herself, but Cassandra’s reasonable tone is better than her own scattered thoughts, leashed with a string of wishful-thinking. “I am a mage,” she says quietly, because this is a part of the problem, will be seen as a part of the problem. She’s chosen a side before she could make a choice, by accident of birth or by destiny or by bad luck; is it why they’re here and not on their way to Therinfal Redoubt?

Cassandra gives her a look. Her expression is a little easier to read now, when the sky turned to gray. “I am aware,” she says dryly, pointing her chin towards Evelyn’s staff. 

“The Commander thinks this is a mistake,” she says and thinks _oh_. It’s like finding a bruise she was previously unaware of by accidentally touching it and feeling the pulsing pain emanate in ripples. Then, in fascination, you press again. 

“He might well be right,” Cassandra nods. “His judgement of the Templar abilities is superior to ours. The rift is much more of an unknown, however, and so are Lord Seeker’s intentions-” she trails off, her own doubts coming closer to the surface. Evelyn nods and stands up. 

“First light, you said?” It’s close enough. 

The problem with the Commander’s opinions, she thinks, it’s that somewhere along the way she has begun to care about them in a whole different way than she should. Not as something that could influence her survival or her standing with the Inquisition, but as something tangled and twisted with her heartstrings and nerves. 

It’s so damn inconvenient, but she’s tired of fighting it, avoiding it, she’s tired of the wariness and the suspicion. She knows she’s been trying for weeks now to provoke him into disappointing her, into saying something neither of them could ignore or take back, and she’s tired of that too. 

“We need to start moving,” Cassandra tells her.

***

“I am never setting my foot in that bog again,” Dorian says firmly, a finishing flourish on the rant about the weather, the travelling conditions, and Ferelden in general. At Evelyn’s look, he sighs long-sufferingly. “We are going to go back to the bog again, aren’t we.”

“I sure hope not,” she says, scrunching her nose, then looks down the road towards Haven. “You think they’ll see us or smell us first?” she asks, gesturing vaguely to where she knows the first sentries are. 

“You are in a good mood,” Dorian tells her, mock-accusatory. Cassandra and Varric are few paces behind, involved in something that might have started as a discussion on finer points of writing styles and somehow deteriorated into… something else. 

“Dorian, we haven’t slept in three days, not properly at least and faceplanting into mud unconscious doesn’t count.”

“That was you, my dear Herald.”

So it was. She shrugs and continues. “I stink like a privy, I’m pretty sure there are bits of decaying corpses in my hair, and a hot bath is extremely unlikely. Smart money says we’ll be welcomed by a new crisis the moment we set foot in Haven.”

“And you are in a good mood,” he mutters and she laughs, can’t help it. It’s been bubbling up in her chest the whole way back, becoming undeniable on the final stretch. It’s been… it’s been a good day. Most of their wins feel like a compromise, feel like something torn out of the grasp of something bigger and more powerful, feel like something paid for with more than they could afford. 

This had been fought for; she can feel it in her bruised ribs and in the gash in her leg, now healed but still throbbing with a memory of pain, but it was clear, clean. It feels _fair_ and there is exhilaration in this, in her veins, under her skin. 

She sees that in the faces of the sentries and the patrolling guards as they pass them, too. The messenger she has sent must have arrived and some of her feeling must be in them too, spilling out in grins and nods and a couple of cheers from the youngest recruits. The exhilaration bounces off of them, of the walls of Haven, and for the first time it feels like she’s not only coming back to camp, but she’s coming home. 

Her horse stops in the usual spot, snorting softly, and Evelyn pats her neck before turning to dismount. Cullen is by her side already, wordlessly offering help and she nods, breathless and weightless for a moment, before her feet touch the ground and he steps back. Not before his hands linger on her waist, just a second longer than necessary. 

She might be imagining this.

“Welcome back, my lady,” he says, low and warm, and maybe she’s not imagining it. She feels laughter bubbling inside her again, and can’t bring herself to care that she stinks like a swamp and might still have bits of decaying flesh in her hair. 

“Commander,” she nods. “How are we doing?”

“Well,” he says and leaves it at that, even though she can see the follow-up sentences forming in his head, the updates and the reports, everything that happened while they were gone and everything that needs to be done yet. Cullen’s mouth moves around the unspoken words, the corner of his lips going up under her gaze, a half-smile, and she wants to reach out and touch it.

“Let’s keep this up, shall we, then?” she nods instead and reluctantly steps away.

***

Her hands are shaking, and she’s not quite sure with what. Nervousness and excitement and fear melt in her stomach into a ball of fire and ice, heavy like lead. This is it, she thinks, here they are; months of working towards this. Her hands are shaking when they should be steady, when she’ll need to raise one of them and will the strange power in it to work, one more time. 

The mages are preparing to march towards the rift, Solas discussing something with the Enchanters, gesturing at one point towards her. Cassandra passes by, a hand on her shoulder, steadying. 

“Not too late to seek the Templars’ help,” Cullen says from behind her and Evelyn spins on her heel, startled. She opens her mouth to ask if he’s out of his mind, maybe, or if he’s joking, and then she catches his gaze and realises that yes, he is. 

“You’ve been saving that one,” she mutters and he shrugs, as good as an admission. Cullen moves to stand next to her, tilting his head to look at the Breach. 

“I’ve almost gotten used to looking up and seeing it up there,” he says and she snorts and doesn’t call him a liar that he is, she’s pretty sure her look conveys it well enough. “Well, not quite _used to_ , maybe,” he allows. “So, this is it, now. Feels strange, doesn’t it.”

Her hands are no longer shaking, she notices suddenly. Her heartbeat is still erratic, nervousness twisting her stomach, but she no longer feels like standing on the edge of the precipice, no longer like this is the and all and be all. She can see something beyond the Breach now, hazy and terrifying but _there_ to look forward to. 

The mages are moving, finally, and she takes a step forward, looks at Cullen over her shoulder. “See you on the other side?”

“Of course.”

***

She’s counting steps, it’s easier this way. Her feet sink into the snow, crunch loud to her ears but not as loud as the howling wind, not as loud as her own pulse, the beat of her own heart, deafening.

She didn’t think the cold would be a problem, really, she’s well used to it. Ice at her fingertips and at her command. Except now she feels it in her bones, undeniable, and it makes it a little harder to move her limbs. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and tugs a strand behind her ear, her fingers coming back dark with blood. She can feel it freezing too. 

She tries to call up fire, her second favourite option, but there’s barely a spark, she’s too exhausted. 

No one would blame her, she thinks, for giving in. No one would know, for starters. They might wait for her to catch up for a while, but eventually they’d have to move on without her. Now that the Breach is closed they don’t even need her that much, she’s replaceable. 

It’s a bit of a relief, to be honest, except for where it’s not. 

She drags her feet. Looks like about twenty steps towards that tree, she can count them out in twos and threes, humming under her breath. The song they played in Haven, earlier. She thinks she remembers the melody, something she’s heard years ago, in her different life, before ice and fire. 

Should have asked him to dance, shouldn’t she? She almost laughs, but can’t muster up enough energy for more than a puff of breath, a cloud forming in front of her face. It’s ridiculous, all of it. Rifts in the fade and dragons and demons and she can feel the blood seeping from her head, the gash in her side. Her wrist might be sprained, if not broken; she barely can hold the staff to lean on it when her feet refuse to shuffle forward, and she is counting the steps in her head and she should have asked.

Hopefully, Cassandra, Dorian and Varric made it through and rejoined the rest. She hadn’t seen any bodies on her way, a good sign. Maybe. Probably. Provided, of course, that this is even the direction they went into, that she hasn’t gotten turned around in the snow. She’s never had the greatest sense of direction, not outside at least. Give her winding corridors any day, she’s useless in the woods. She’s useless here, now; everything white and too peaceful and the same, as far as the eye can see. 

Cullen got them all out, she’s sure of that at least. Everyone who was alive by the time they marched out, that is. She closes her eyes and breathes out slowly, but it doesn’t help the images she can still see under her eyelids, the bodies on the ground, the Templars twisted into… something. 

Were they always heading this way or would going to Therinfal Redoubt change anything? 

No, she’s done everything she could. Wasn’t enough, but then again, what could be, in the face of these forces. If I could do it again, she thinks, If I could, I’d only hesitate less, not waste the time. 

She stopped counting at some point and she stumbles forward now, reaches out to stop herself from falling face first into the snow. Wrong hand, too, a shot of pain along her side and a loud crunch she wishes she hadn’t heard. 

Alright, taking stock. Can’t see much, slightly dizzy and lightheaded. She slowly unties a thread of ribbon from her staff, pulling when it doesn’t come off easily, frozen solid to the wood. Doesn’t really need to cast ice spells now, really, and it’ll to as a makeshift sling. Her fingers fumble on the ribbon, the edge cutting her thumb, just for a good measure, but she manages. 

Her side is probably the worst, but she can’t do much now. She tries for a healing spell with what little mana she has left, but she’s never been good at that. She thinks she stopped the bleeding at least, for now. Can still walk. Can’t cry, no point in that and no time for that either. Alright.

She starts counting again. Maybe thirty steps to the rock formation, twos and threes, let’s go.

She’s on the second verse of the song when she hears voices. Either she is losing it completely now, or… she’s sure she hears _his_ voice, but she would if she was losing her mind, wouldn’t she. 

Stumbling, she closes her eyes and waits, for a beat and then two and three. And then, suddenly, arms around her, lifting her up. She buries her face in his neck, the pauldrons tickling her cheek. She can feel his pulse rushing, feel him shiver when her lips accidentally brush his skin. She closes her eyes and lets the sound of his heartbeat drown out the voices around her.

***

She wakes up under a heavy pile of blankets and with Cullen sitting on a crate next to the bed, eyes closed and leaning forward a little. She wonders if he’s sleeping in this position and if it’s something he’s used to, or is it a testament to how tired he was. 

The moment she stirs, however, Cullen opens his eyes and looks straight at her, his gaze clear.

“The Haven’s walls weren’t enough to bury me, you thought blankets would do better?” she asks and pushes at them feebly. Her wrist feels a little sore but doesn’t really hurt anymore, she finds, and when she moves her hand over her side, the gash is healed as well. “Are those all the blankets in the camp? Any left?”

“A few. Would you like me to get them for you?” Cullen asks politely and she raises her eyebrows at him. 

Cullen leans back in his seat a little. He’s wearing full armor despite the small hours of the night. He’s probably left everything back in Haven, now buried under the rocks and snow. So will be all her things, everyone’s belongings. They got the people out, as many as they could but she’s pretty sure no one had time to gather anything beyond the complete necessities. 

And that’s just the start of the problems. The resources could maybe be regained, one way or another, but they have nowhere to go, nowhere to possibly put up with housing this many people, not to mention the horses and other mounts. It’s not just starting from scratch, it’s digging themselves out of an early grave, and…

“You should get some rest,” Cullen tells her, soft but firm.

“How is everyone? We need to…”

“We need you rested,” he interrupts her, nodding in apology after he does, but pressing on. “Believe me, the best thing you can do for everyone now is get back to sleep. We’ll be here in the morning and I doubt anything will change much,” he says wryly and well, he’s not exactly wrong and it’s not quite a good thing either. 

The thing that stills her protest is that he looks tired, like he hadn’t slept in a long while. Has he been here all this time, however long it really was? She remembers him finding her and carrying her in, warm and careful and so steady, even if his heart was rushing, she could feel it, the pulse under his skin, against her lips… she reaches out to touch his cheek but her hand gets tangled in the blankets and she huffs, frustrated, the moment broken. 

“I’ll make you a deal, Commander,” she tells him, setting back against a pillow… wait, it’s not a pillow but a blanket rolled up like one, of course. “I rest if you rest.”

“There’s-” he starts and stops himself instantly and Evelyn can see the exact moment of the realisation of what will happen should he argue that there’s too much to do, or any other excuse he was ready to come up with. She could, of course, also point out that he was sitting here with her anyway, but there are things she isn’t yet ready to bring up. 

She can, however, reach out and tug at his sleeve to get him to look at her again. “Deal?”

He gives her a look that is filled with exasperation, yes, but also with affection that causes something to stir in her chest, warmth and hope coursing through her veins. It’s not exactly new, she’d seen it in his eyes before, but always fleeting, always quickly reined it in, making her think she had only imagined it. 

Not so, now. She can’t be imagining this. She’s staring long enough for him to notice, and while she expects him to look away and bring the conversation back to the professional tracks, he shrugs with one shoulder instead, lips quirking in a light smile. 

He knows what she sees in his face and lets her, and she wants to kiss him so badly in this moment. Should she? Cullen makes no move to lean forward or to step back, his gaze steady. Something’s changed since Haven, something else than, well, everything, something close and personal and her mouth runs dry and her stomach tightens with fear and hope.

Someone walks into the tent and she drags her gaze away, looking up at Martius, one of the healers, grinning at her. “You’re awake, my lady. While you shouldn’t be,” he says with some reproach and she shakes her head.

“I am very sorry?” she says dryly.

“As I said, you need rest,” Cullen says, moving to stand up. She makes a noise of protest and he bows his head to her. “Don’t worry, Herald, I will keep our deal.”

That’s not what she was worried about.

***

They’re finishing up breakfast in Caer Bronach when Evelyn moves to sit down next to Cassandra. It’s later in the day than they usually have the meal on the road, but yesterday has been… trying. The meeting with Hawke’s Warden friend went well enough, if you can say anything related to this sorry business goes _well_ , but it came after the demons and the corpses in Old Crestwood…

“Are you alright?” Cassandra asks in what is a really gentle manner, coming from her. Evelyn shrugs, because that’s not a question she can truly answer anymore.

“We’re going to be making a detour, me and Dorian,” she says. Cassandra gives her a searching look, head tilted consideringly. “It’s a personal matter in Redcliffe. You and Varric can travel straight to Skyhold, start preparations for the Western Approach.”

She can see the questions flicker through Cassandra’s expression, her jaw tightening. What she gets, however, is a tentative “Personal matter?” her voice tinged with concern.

“Not mine,” she says firmly, all that she _will_ say on the matter unless Dorian chooses otherwise. But as much as he’s been providing a constant stream of commentary in the past few days, mostly regarding the terrible weather (complaints actually _increased_ when it stopped raining) and dogs, he’s been tight-lipped on the whole issue, making Evelyn think at times that he might have forgotten his request.

But she can see he is very aware of the conversation right now, sitting a little too nonchalantly on the other side of the breakfast bench, busy with asking Varric about Kirkwall and pointedly not eavesdropping at all. 

“We can send a messenger to Skyhold,” Cassandra says finally. “In case you run into some trouble on the way,” she adds, a question in her tone.

“Yes, let’s make this a fun trip for the whole family,” Dorian mutters, spitting the last words like they test bitter, and that settles it for her.

This is roughly how she ends up on the way back from Redcliffe with an uncharacteristically quiet, thoughtful Dorian, and only horses for company. It’s strange, stranger than she even expected, after weeks and months of years of being surrounded by people all the time, always watching her, one reason or another. 

Tutors and parents, teachers and templars, _everyone_ in the Inquisition. Some more welcome than others, yes, some friendly and concerned, but always _there_ , adding to the pressure. 

Now it’s just the quiet forest, so quiet it’s almost deafening, no one but them for miles. Dorian took up a book from his pack and pretends to be reading in the light of the small fire. He’s stayed on the same page for Maker knows how long now, like he doesn’t even care about the pretense so much.

“You can say it, you know,” he says, not looking up. His tone is dry, or at least tries for it, but there’s resignation lurking in the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, is this where we talk about our feelings?” she says flatly and sends a spell towards the dwindling fire. It’s probably lazy to do this instead of get up to gather more firewood, but it’s been a long day. In a long stream of long days, too. 

Dorian gives her a look, his expression a little too carefully schooled-down, pleasant. The fire sends shadows across his face, his eyes darker than usual. “Splendid way to pass the journey, don’t you think? We can start with gossiping about your Templar.”

She’s expected the jab, just wasn’t sure from which direction. She’s pretty sure Dorian expects her to protest or argue, but she just leans back on her elbows and tilts her head. “Ex-Templar,” she corrects flatly. She holds Dorian’s gaze until his mouth quirks and he inclines his head in acknowledgement. Only then she shrugs. “Not _my_ Ex-Templar, either.”

Dorian laughs, possibly at her, but she doesn’t quite mind. “Give it time,” he says. “We’ll talk,” he adds and she’s not quite sure if it’s a threat or a promise and what he intends to talk about. Still, she nods and gets up, stretching as she does. She might as well look for some firewood.

***

It’s a bad day. He hides it well, or at least well enough to fool almost everyone, which only makes her wonder how many of these she had missed before. Not that she could have helped, not that Cullen would have _welcomed_ her help, but maybe she could have made some things easier, lessen his burdens just a little.

Then again, he wouldn’t have wanted that either, he seems to desperately want to prove to everyone, to himself, that he can do this, can pull through.

She cuts the discussion as short as possible, asks Leliana to table the decision on some of the missions she’s running until they have more intel, leaves the negotiations in Josephine’s hands, asks Cullen to hand over his reports. 

His hand shakes slightly when he hands her the papers, almost imperceptible unless you look for it. Evelyn busies herself with flicking through the pages, considering options. There is a one hundred percent chance Cullen will get back to his office and busy himself with work. She can’t do anything about that… except for where she can.

“Commander,” she calls after him when they walk out, and he stops in the doorway, politely waiting for her to catch up, holding the heavy door. There’s a tightness around his eyes and mouth, his eyes squinting a little against the light. “Are you very busy tonight? You owe me a rematch, I think.”

He hesitates, she can see his reluctance, the way he considers the undoubtedly towering mountain of reports that always reside on his work. And she feels both guilty and pleased when he looks at her and nods; having this kind of influence on him is a heady thing, knowing that he agrees just because it’s her asking.

The garden is almost empty at this hour, barely anyone milling about in the near-darkness. It’s a warm evening, just a hint of a night chill in the air for now, and she lights up the lanterns with a wave of her hand as they set up in the gazebo, Cullen’s hands moving swiftly over the board as he sets up the pieces. 

He sits back when he’s done, closes his eyes for a brief moment and exhales, just the slightest bit of tension seeming to leave his shoulders, and Evelyn can’t help a pleased smile. 

“You seem certain of a victory,” Cullen says when he catches it, and she shrugs, playing along as she reaches out to move the first piece. 

“Dorian has been helping me practice, we’ve had some time in camp sites.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “Dorian would be much better at this if he paid more attention to the actual game and less to how he could cheat at it.”

This is frighteningly accurate, she supposes. She wasn’t even aware people could try and cheat at this, but Dorian keeps finding new ways, some of them so ridiculously transparent, they must be on purpose. 

They spend a quiet moment contemplating the board before Cullen clears his throat and moves a piece. He has her worried in two moves now, all but confirming her suspicions after she’s listened to Dorian complain a few times: he let her think she was letting him win that first time, the bastard. 

An endearing one, but still. 

“When are you setting out?” he asks, as if they hadn’t just gone over this with Leliana and Josephine. Still, it’s not like she has any better conversations openings; she’s good enough at navigating small talk, but her skills have always been rather useless when faced with his… well, face. 

“Day after tomorrow. We’ll stop at the Keep to see how they’re settling in, then check on the rumors of darkspawn… that’s unsettling,” she mutters and sets up her defense strategy; if she’s lucky he won’t notice for the next few moves the trap she’s laying in. “Maybe once again upset all wildlife in a region,” she adds dryly and laughs at his look before telling him of the time Dorian’s spell startled a bunch of fennecs, one of which bit Cassandra in the ankle. “She chased it down the hill screaming ‘Maker take you’ at the poor thing at the top of her lungs. I think it died of a heart attack.”

“Well, wouldn’t you?” Cullen asks her mock-earnestly and she grins.

“Varric almost died himself, he was laughing so hard he forgot to duck. Good thing the freeman had a truly terrible aim. Honestly, the whole thing was ridiculous enough to almost rival the time Cassandra punched a druffalo in the nose,” she mutters. She can see Cullen’s mouth twitching, it’s clear he’s trying not to laugh. 

“You’re enjoying yourself,” he tells her.

“It’s a side to Cassandra I did not expect,” she says fondly. “Also makes me really happy I’m on her good side. Most times,” she adds.

He laughs, startling her, warmth spreading in her chest, under her ribcage something fluttering. “I know what you mean,” he mutters. 

She watches him as he moves the pieces across board, his face thoughtful but more relaxed now, his features softening. She feels a smile forcing its way onto her lips, can’t help it and doesn’t really want to. As much as this whole thing was designed to make him breathe and relax for a moment, to turn his attention from work and trouble, she benefits from it as well, hasn’t even realised to what extent until now. 

She feels like an idiot in his presence sometimes, like a girl much younger than she ever truly felt. The thing is though, she does not hate it at all; it’s a light kind of feeling, frothy and bubbly, warm. It settles in her cheeks and her chest and makes her fingertips itch. It’s… exciting, in a way that makes her stumble, over her own feet and her own words. 

It worried her at the beginning, when she was still wary of him, wary of everyone but mostly him, because even before she knew this, she knew he had the power to hurt her the most, somehow. He still does, and she starts learning that this is mutual, he’s letting her see this. 

They’re on an edge of _something_ and neither one is rushing in. It _could_ be rushed, she could make the final step and Cullen might follow, blindly, eagerly, happily. There is this dark place in the back of her mind reminding her that they’re in the middle of a war, that time is precious and limited, but then so is this.

The moment when his smile turns smug and she forces herself to pay more attention to the board because damnit he must have set up _something_. The soft chuckle when she curses the pieces under her breath. The fact that even they’re clearly done with the game he leans back in his seat, any thought of going back to work firmly forgotten, as he discards his gloves with a clink on the table and after she asks about his sister again, launches into a story of the mabari puppy she got when she was seven.

“Did you have one?” Evelyn says after she’s finished laughing. “Every Ferelden book I’ve ever read, especially the stories for children, made me think every kid there had a mabari. Or five. Really wanted one when I was a little, but you lot are very unwilling to sell them outside borders. Father started negotiations, but nothing came of it, I think…”

“They are expensive enough that very few families, outside of nobles, can afford more than one. My mother offered, a few times,” he shrugs, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. “But I knew I’d have to leave it behind if I wanted to join the Templars. Seemed easier not to…”

She reaches out to touch his hand before she can talk herself out of it. She expects him to withdraw when he startles and looks down, but after a beat he turns his hand palm up, holding on to her fingers for a moment.

“I grew up around horses, my mother’s family bred them; probably the best mounts in Ostwick,” she said, her voice laced with old pride. “I was to get my first real grown-up horse for my thirteenth nameday. The dam was my mother’s favourite mare and my father made complex deals of favours to secure the sire I chose, it was a big thing.”

“Sounds like it,” he nods, leaning in as he listens. His thumb moves over her knuckles almost absently, softly. 

“I mean, it’s still my horse, I guess,” she shrugs. “Though my younger brother cares for him and rides him. No point for the poor thing to waste away in a stable, that horse was _meant_ for distances, I swear, he’s... “

“How old were you when you went to the Circle?”

Of course he’d catch on the story quickly, his is pretty similar in some ways. Except that he chose not to forge ties pretty early on, she didn’t see it coming at all. “Two weeks before that nameday. Older than most, I suppose.” 

He makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, before sitting back. Evelyn flexes her fingers at the loss of contact and picks up one of the game pieces, turning it in her hand for lack of something else to do. “At least you have all the mounts you could ever want now,” he says lightly. His gaze is still serious, but she appreciates the shift in tone, it was starting to be too… too everything, probably. “I dread to ask where Dennet gets some of those beasts.”

She beams, only half-forced. “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

“That’s one word for it. I swear I heard him wondering where he could get his hands on a dracolisk for you, why would anyone…” he catches her gaze and tilts his head, his voice filling with exasperation and just a touch of amusement. “You are really excited about this, aren’t you.”

“A _dracolisk_ , Cullen.”

“Of course,” he says dryly, looking at her as she rolls her eyes. Slowly, he shifts forward, his gaze turning a little more intent. Her heart decides to skip a beat or two. “I just wanted to thank you, Inquisitor. You… It was good to take my mind off of things for a while.”

She stops herself from blurting the first thing she wants to, and smiles instead, taking up a teasing tone. “I have a name, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says, his voice a little too hoarse for comfort, sending a shiver down her spine. They’re on the same edge again, and she sways on her feet and thinks that the fall would be something amazing, no matter how terrifying it also might be. Cullen looks down at his hands, clearing his throat. “And it seems I owe you another rematch.”

“Yes, you do,” she mutters, standing up. He all but jumps to his feet when she does and not for the first time she wonders who drilled the manners into him like this; it’s not something she sees a lot of these days. He falls into step with her on the way out of the garden and holds the doors, and his hand brushes the small of her back for just a briefest of moments, almost making her stumble over her feet.

“Your Worship,” a soldier walking through the great hall stops in her tracks and bows slightly. Her gaze goes to Cullen nervously as she shuffles her feet. “Commander,” she adds. “Varric has been looking for you. I mean, for the Her- the Inquisitor. Your Worship,” she repeats, looking flustered. Evelyn rakes her memory for the name; the woman is new, but she’s sure they have met already. “Varric says your mutual friend is back, with news.”

“Thank you, Priya,” she says and turns to Cullen. “Commander, if you could let the others know to meet us in the war room?”

“Right away, Inquisitor,” he says and then, softer, once Priya nods smartly and turns on her heel to walk away. “Reprieve over, then?”

“Raincheck, I’d say,” she offers, and even through the worry at what Hawke has to tell them, she feels warmth fill her chest again. 

***

One thing Evelyn has to admit; she hasn’t quite expected kissing Cullen would be so distracting, or that it would be so hard to stop. Pretty much every time she sees the man she wants to drag him away and steal a moment, feel his arms around her, his lips on hers. 

These past few days, as they plan the approach to Adamant, despite the seriousness and the grimness of the task, she still sometimes looks at him across the table, over the papers, across the courtyard, and feels the curious new happiness bubble up inside her.

It’s not exactly conducive to the image of the Inquisitor she might want to maintain and she _knows_ Leliana is laughing at the both of them, but she’s given up caring when she realised that every time she asks to borrow him for a moment, every time she tries to steal a few seconds of closeness, Cullen lets her and gladly.

She should have expected this, probably, when he gently stuttered around softer words before, but the stoic and steady Commander demeanor melts away when met with her affection, with her hand on his face and her fingers lacing with his. He’s letting her set the pace, she’s always the one to reach out first, and he always seems a little surprised when she does.

Her first step is always welcomed with quick abandon, his arms around her tightening, pulling her impossibly close, his lips insistent and firm, his fingers sinking into her hair.

She laughs now as his mouth finds her neck, gently exploring. She’ll need to devise a scheme to reward this kind of initiative, especially when it leads to him discovering the one spot in the crook of her neck that makes her shiver and dig her fingers into his arms. 

“Was this-” he asks, leaning back a little and she moves her hand up to the back of his neck to keep him close, keep them breathing the same air. Her lips brush his. “Alright then,” he mutters into her mouth.

There’s a soft click of the doors opening and Cullen starts drawing away. She places her hand on the one resting on her waist and he looks at her, startled, and then holds her gaze, as if looking for something in her face. 

“Is this not the time?” Leliana says from the doorway. For someone wearing heavy boots all the time, she makes surprisingly little noise. Or maybe, not that surprisingly. “Oh, am I too early?”

“A little,” Evelyn says, not moving. Cullen’s face is close enough she would just have to tilt her head a little to kiss him again, his breathing still uneven and his eyes darker than usual. “But if you’d like to check if Josephine is ready, we could start now.”

“Of course. This will take but a moment,” Leliana says, her voice perfectly innocent, Evelyn doesn’t believe her for a second. The doors close quietly behind her and Cullen moves, stepping forward and forcing Evelyn to take a step back, the back of her thighs hitting the war table as his mouth moves against hers, making her groan and arch her back. 

He moves away after that, leaving her shivering, and resting his forehead on hers. “Sorry,” he offers breathlessly.

She’s not quite sure what he’s apologising for; neither is necessary or needed. She places her finger on his lips, feeling the ridge of his scar under her fingertip. “You honestly didn’t intend to keep it a secret, did you? Half of the barracks knows.”

“That’s an optimistic estimate,” he mutters and steps back properly now. She gives him a look and he shakes his head, smiling slightly, allaying her worries. “I did hope to maybe keep you to myself for a little longer, but that was a foolish notion from the start, considering everything.”

She hums thoughtfully and steps around the table to her preferred spot, overlooking the maps. “Not that foolish,” she tells him and turns to give Leliana and Josephine a welcoming smile. 

***

The trek from Adamant to Skyhold is a strange, eerie affair. Technically, they have won, but no one’s mood seems to reflect this, least of all Evelyn’s. Cassandra is still reeling after meeting the… spirit of Divine, maybe, who can tell. Varric is monosyllabic and gloomy, either still shaken by the Fade or sharing Evelyn’s trepidations about the Weisshaupt. Everyone is quiet, thoughtful in a worrying way. 

The soldiers are in better moods, but they’re now looking at her in quiet reverence. It’s been going so well, they’ve almost gotten used to the thought of her being a _person_ , and then she’s gone and walked unharmed out of the Fade again. Leaving good people behind to die in her place. It’s becoming a terrible habit of hers, isn’t it. 

At the front of the group, Cullen pulls at the reins and turns his horse around, making his way back unhurriedly, talking to few of the soldiers on his way until he reaches her. They ride wordlessly side by side for a long moment, and Evelyn knows he’s watching her carefully.

“A sovereign for you thoughts?” he says finally and she shrugs.

“You’d be greatly overpaying, Commander,” she tells him. “Especially since they are yours and freely,” she adds and Cullen chuckles softly, embarrassed and pleased, ducks his head to hide the smile tugging on his lips. She still marvels at this, truly, at the way she can actually make this man turn bashful and flustered. It’s a heady feeling, but it scares her a little too; she’s not quite sure she’s worthy of this, of him.

“There it is again,” he says quietly, she has to strain to hear the words over the shuffle of hooves and feet and the wind on the mountain pass. “If there’s anything-”

“Walk with me, Commander?” she asks and he gives her a startled look then, slowly, nods.

“Of course, my lady,” he says and draws the attention of one of the soldiers, handing off the reins to him. It’s the final stretch to Skyhold, everyone’s step acquiring a bit of a spring to it as they see the walls getting closer. Evelyn and Cullen, however, slow down a little, allowing everyone to pass them.

He grants her the silence for a long few moments, seeming content to wait for her to speak, even though his concern is palpable. It’s a kindness she doesn’t feel she quite deserves now, not after everything today. 

“Did you believe- Did you think it was true, that I was the Herald?” she asks finally, hating how small her voice gets.

A moment passes before he answers, not looking at her but ahead, mouth working around the answer before he speaks. “No. Not quite,” he adds, sounding apologetic, before looking at her. “You’re smiling,” he says, voice rising into a question, a little concerned.

“It’s a bit of a relief,” she tells him honestly, shrugging. 

Cullen shakes his head. “I thought, still think, that you were exactly what we needed. It _could_ have been divine providence. But I don’t think that’s how it works,” he runs his hand over the back of his neck and it makes her smile a little again, the gesture so familiar and dear by now. “And it felt like such a terrible burden to lay on you. Besides, I-” he starts to add, a little flustered, and she thinks she can guess where this sentence leads. 

“And that,” she agrees and tugs at his hand, stopping in her tracks. They’re now well behind the group, who all but reached Skyhold’s gates now. “Now, will you let me help?” He tries to look like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “You’re not that bad at hiding it, but you’ve been favouring your left side. And I’m pretty sure you are just going to try and patch it up yourself, not see the healers.”

“They have enough wounded to take care of,” he tells her, more than confirming her suspicions. She huffs under her nose and opens the pouch on her belt for the potion vial, pushing it into his hand. “I’m fine, you shouldn’t waste it.”

She forgets sometimes how stubborn he can be; well-reasoned arguments work when it’s about the Inquisition’s operations and she thinks herself quite persuasive in… other areas, but there are moments like this, when it’s the worst choice for _him_ and he won’t budge at all. “Well, unless you’re willing to let me practice my poor healing skills on you…” she shrugs and closes his fingers on the vial.

“I thought the fighting and the Fade would have tired you out,” he says, sounding concerned for her, of course he does. But the curious thing is, that it really didn’t. There were places in the Fade that seemed to strengthen her somehow, and despite the fighting, despite the whole ordeal of it, she came out of there feeling more… more. 

It’s a terrible thing, to feel better than before after something like this, after losing all the people she has, after learning what she has, but here she is. 

“It didn’t,” she says simply and gives him a look when he hands her back the potion. She knows he avoids the healers; he carries scars that could have been easily avoided. She’s heard enough about the Ferelden Circle, enough about Kirkwall, to understand why he’d flinch at any magic, even the most benevolent one, directed at him.

And yet, somehow, this is what he’s asking now, of her. Not in as many words, but he holds her gaze, only a hint of trepidation and more trust than she knows what to do with. 

“I’m not that good at it,” she warns but doesn’t do him the disservice of suggesting a better healer. His breathing speeds up when she moves closer, hand running down his side. Cullen’s fingers guide her to the spot under his armor and she can feel the warm blood on her fingertips. 

He rests his forehead on hers, breathing harsh and startled when the magic first starts flowing. She can feel the familiar buzzing under her skin and knows he can too, shivering under her hand. 

She’s always done rather poorly at this; she has neither the natural aptitude for healing spells nor the patience to endlessly practice something she’s bad at. She knows the basics and can deal in a crisis, but that’s that. She’s practiced on her own cuts and bruises enough to know that it stings and burns more than it probably should, not painless and easy as the talented spirit healers can make it. She tries to make up for it with a soothing, mild ice spell, but that can’t be enough.

There’s no complaints from Cullen, however. He breathes in sharply once, and despite the way his body tenses and shudders under her hands, he seems to lean into her anyway. His hand rises to the back of her neck, fingers sinking into her hair, the touch almost impossibly gentle; like he’s keeping himself tethered and still by this simple touch. 

His other hand grasps onto the material of her coat, however, and she can see his knuckles go white.

“Sorry,” she says finally, knowing she should step back but not making any attempt to do so, cold fingers on his now unmarked skin, under the metal. Cullen leans in even closer; she didn’t think it was possible and yet.

“Didn’t feel a thing,” he lies. “Thank you.”

She shakes her head at him, but there are two fingers under her chin next, tilting her head into a soft kiss, and she can’t help smiling. 

They make the rest of the way to Skyhold in silence, hands brushing as they walk, and when Haym meets them at the gates because Cullen’s opinion on something is urgently needed, she laces their fingers together briefly before letting go.

It’s hard to do, because the moment she does, she’ll have to get back to the reality; Adamant casts a long shadow and there are things to consider, the consequences to deal with. She’d like much better than to push it away, hide in Cullen’s arms even for a moment longer, but some things need to be faced and dealt with. And she might even have the strenght to do that.

***

Her mouth tastes like ashes and her tongue has turned to lead. “Shit fuck shit,” she mutters with feeling into the pillow. Her head hurts. Her stomach hurts. Her back hurts like fuck. Her _everything_ hurts, pulses with pain and unease and _why_.

“Good morning, did you sleep well?” Cullen asks, sounding unbearably cheerful. And smug.

“Murder,” she offers.

“You or me?” he asks conversationally and yes, he is clearly enjoying himself. Evelyn turns her head to squint up at him, sitting at her table by the window. Too close to the window. Light hurts.

She groans and waves her hand in his general direction before pushing herself up ineffectually, scrambling to rest against the headboard. “Ugh,” she says. “Last time I drank that much…” well, not exactly that much, but to the same effect, she supposes. Was also the first time she drank alcohol at all, at sixteen, when she was with her family for the Satinalia the year her cousins from Tantervale visited. Her cousins were undeniably evil, the most evil beings she had ever encountered, and she had fought demons and darkspawn and ancient magisters. And dragons. Who might not be strictly evil but a damn menace, just like cousin Gilbert. Excellent hair though, even half burned off. Gilbert, not dragons.

“What happened last time?” Cullen prompts softly and she blinks at him.

“Last time what?”

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to her, and picks up a mug from the desk, making his way towards the bed. He sits down on the edge and pushes the mug into her hands. “Josephine’s recipe, she swears by it.”

“It stinks,” she mutters, frowning at it. Sickly sweet but with a hint of something long dead. Cullen looks at her expectantly and Evelyn closes her eyes and holds her breath, than downs the mug in one go. “That was vile. Josephine’s recipe, really?”

“From her younger days, or so she claims,” Cullen tells her. “I make sure not to ask, just in case.”

He doesn’t really need to explain; Evelyn is well familiar with Leliana’s glares. She settles back more comfortably against the pillows, wonder of wonders, the headache is actually receding. “Did you stay the whole night?”

“Except for getting this for you, yes,” Cullen says cautiously, busying himself with taking the mug and gingerly setting it down on the nightstand. “You asked and I-” he ducks his head, refusing to look at her. 

She doesn’t quite remember asking him to stay, to be honest, the whole evening is a bit of a blur after the second mug of that _thing_ and what did Bull say it was? Nevermind. She doesn’t remember asking him, but she’d do it again. She reaches out to tug on his sleeve; he’s lost the coat and the armor; it’s not the first time she sees him like this, but in the soft morning light of her rooms he looks… 

“So, you stayed.”

He shrugs, still not looking at her. “It wasn’t actually my intention to stay the whole night, just until you fell asleep. But-”

“Cullen,” she stops him, hand on his chin to make him look up. Sometimes he looks at her like this, like she’s the one good thing in his life. It petrifies her and it humbles her at the same time, but above all, it makes her unbearably sad. 

And that’s not even the hardest part; that happens when he looks at her like he knows it’s only a matter of time before he loses her, to Corypheus or to one of the hundred other dangers she faces every other day, but also to her choice. She sees that too, the way he doesn’t look at her for fear of having her turn away. 

Evelyn isn’t sure what one says to something like this, how she can make herself more clear. She also isn’t sure if confessions and assurances _are_ the answer, even if she was the kind of person to make them easily. 

Instead, she runs the side of her thumb over his cheek, then down his jaw. She feels words pressing onto her tongue, waiting to spill, but they’re not the right ones, or they are not right for this moment, and so she goes and says the most inane thing possible, really. “Good morning.”

It took too long to come and her voice is hoarse and her lips dry, but Cullen smiles at her, his shoulders shaking with startled laughter and he hides his grin in the palm of her hand.

***

They’ve done it, they’ve finally arrived at an actual slow day. Well, as much of a slow day as you’re going to get with something like the Inquisition, which means that there is a myriad of tasks that needs to be done. But none of them requires her _personal_ input or attention, for once. 

They’re considering setting out back to the Storm Coast; there’s some leads to look into first though, and the trip might not happen this week, or the next. They’re still stumped for ways to approach Celene other than the ball, and that’s not on for a while yet. 

Everyone else is busy, somehow, with personal matters or day to day running of the Inquisition and she’s just… not needed. It’s a nice day. It’s a really weird day. 

“Oh, hello,” Cullen says, coming to a stop by her. He’s clearly on his way somewhere, probably Leliana, judging by the papers under his arm and the shortcut he’s taking through the ramparts. “Were you coming to see me?”

She has been entertaining the idea, for the past half an hour, give or take. That’s why she’s in this part of the fortress anyway. But she knows he’s been trying to catch up on some of the requisitions while they’re enjoying this brief reprieve from any crises, she really didn’t want to disturb him.

“At some point,” she shrugs and turns back to where she was looking over the courtyard. Nothing much changed in the past thirty seconds really. 

He moves to stand next to her, shoulders brushing. Their silences have long ago became comfortable, but there is an expectant quality to it now. Evelyn is pretty sure he’s been holding back something for a day or two now, still hesitating. His gaze is tinted with nervousness but also excitement, so she’s content to wait.

Well, almost content. She’s never been especially patient. 

“You seem,” he pauses, searching for a word, “preoccupied,” he decides and she snorts under her breath.

“Not at all. I’m sitting on my hands, really. Twiddling my thumbs. Doing shit-all,” she adds, then sighs. He’s frowning at her, confused and a little worried, and she owes him an explanation. “Sorry. Dorian is… Dorian is dealing with something personal regarding a family heirloom. I’ve offered to help, but he says it’s something he must do for himself. He’s right, I just-”

“Hate being left behind and unable to help?” he guesses, too easily. She gives him an apologetic look and he reaches out, covering her hand with his. “If you’re truly in need of a distraction, I have a few recruits who could use some practice against a mage.”

“Do you hate your recruits, by any chance?” she asks dryly.

“Well, they’re not my _favourite_ bunch,” he says, matching her tone. His thumb is moving across her knuckles and she shifts her hand, lacing her fingers with his. “I’ll see you on the training grounds in, say, half an hour?”

“You intend to supervise, Commander?”

“Wouldn’t be a proper training exercise if I didn’t. Besides, someone needs to pick them up from the ground after you’re done with them,” he tells her and steps back with a smile. 

She watches him walk away and shakes her head. Well, that’ll do for a distraction.

***

“I don’t need any help embarrassing myself around you.”

Something bothers her about the phrase, about the way he says it. Half-joking, yes, voice tinged with self-deprecation and wryness, but there’s a bitter truth to it, or at least what he considers the truth. It doesn’t sit well with her.

The game was a good idea, all in all. There’s a lightness to everyone today that she hasn’t seen in months. She swears she saw Cassandra smile at Dorian earlier, absolutely unprompted. Even those who are still nursing slight hangovers are brighter, more cheerful. Cullen, though…

She didn’t think much of it yesterday, he’s a man to know his limits perfectly well. Too well, in some cases. But in this, he could have stepped back easily at any point, before losing all his money and certainly before losing his clothes. He didn’t, even when he could have been pretty damn sure of where it was heading. So, the game wasn’t the problem, neither was the nudity.

And honestly, she tries not to look _too_ overtly, but there was no problem at all. Whatsoever.

But now, going by the exasperated fluster and the weariness in his voice, she knows it’s once again about her, about her good opinion of him. 

She slowly reaches up to the buttons on her coat and starts from the top. “Would you like to level the playing field?” she asks innocently, managing to get the ones on her short coat undone and start on the tunic underneath before he finds his words.

“Evelyn,” he says pleadingly, voice hoarse. Good, she can work with that. She stops her hand on the third button and raises her eyebrows at him. “Maker…” he mutters under his breath. giving her a look he might think is stern but comes across as something vastly different. “Have mercy on me.”

Somehow she doesn’t think the last one is directed at the Maker, to be honest. “Alright, Commander,” she says, pushing away the papers from the edge of his desk to prop herself against it. “We should really establish once and for all, that while I enjoy your blushes, there is absolutely nothing you can do that’d make me-,” she hesitates only briefly over this; she could see the sentence’s end creeping up and felt the words making their way onto her tongue, but it’s not the time, not yet, “less fond of you. Believe me,” she adds firmly, and something in the way she says it must have given her away because Cullen steps towards her, moving in closer to stand between her legs. It makes her heart beat that much faster, a slow flush bloom out from her chest. 

“You’ve mentioned something before,” he agrees, and she has, hasn’t she? On the road to Honnleath, she might have said something about him not being the only one to embarrass himself around the person he-

“I have tried to find something to dislike about you for weeks,” she tells him, smiling slightly. It seems so long ago now, it’s surprising to think it’s only been months. 

He looks at her like he’s waiting for the punchline and she shrugs, raising her eyebrows at him. “That’s what all the questions were about?” he asks. “I was pretty sure you hated me after every other conversation we’ve had.”

“Meanwhile, I was being utterly and completely charmed, Commander.”

“There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose,” he tells her, aiming for dry, but there’s wonder in his voice and she tugs at the front of his coat.

***

The desk is probably a very bad idea, but it feels like such a great one. His gloves land on the floor with a loud clink, louder even than the frantic beating of her heart and the chorus of _this is happening_ echoing in her head.

It’s happening. His fingers fumble a little with the fastenings of her shirt, and he kisses a path down her neck, gentle and familiar and new. They’ve kissed a hundred times before, each time a revelation, but this is different. 

Cullen spends an eternity on just kissing her, like it’s the only thing in the world. Even as she’s pressed into the table by his weight over her, even as she spreads her legs for him and digs her fingers into his arms, even as she’s whimpering into his mouth.Heat is pooling in her stomach, molten lava in her veins, and she’s so wet for him already it’s almost unbearable.

It will be unbearable if he doesn’t touch her soon.

“We should move to-” he starts, drawing back, and she makes a sound of protest. 

“Don’t even dare, Commander,” she tells him roughly, his eyes darkening when he looks down at her. He’s still pressed closely against her, and she can feel him straining his breeches, his cock pressed against her thigh. “Here and now,” she tells him, short and clipped like orders she barks on a battlefield, and sits up a little, moving to finish his work for him and pull her tunic over her head. 

He makes a sound deep in his throat and she can see the moment his control snaps. She hadn’t realised how much he was holding himself back until he isn’t anymore, until his lips are back on hers, hungry and undeniable, until his fingers are swift on the fastenings of her own breeches, exposing her to him.

She raises her hips obligingly to help him dispose of her smalls and he pauses for a long moment, hand on her thigh stilling in its movement, as he looks down at her. She flushes under his gaze, not just a blush blooming in her cheeks and spreading down her neck, but explosions of heat all over her body, wherever his eyes fall on her, her skin tingling.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she tells him breezily, like she’s making conversation. It takes a considerable effort to keep her voice level, but the look he sends her is entirely worth it. So is the way he wastes no time in shaking off his coat and armor, dull thuds against the floor as he tosses them away, uncaring. 

When he kisses her again, his whole body pressed against hers, it’s just the thin layers of his clothes between them, and she shivers more from his heat than from the cold night air creeping in through the window. “Still overdressed,” she tells him, her breath hitching when his mouth starts moving down her collarbone and between her breasts. 

He chuckles softly before obliging her and pulling his shirt off, ducking his head when she takes her time looking at him, runs her fingernails gently down his chest. Her hand stops on the edge of his breeches and he’s holding his breath, and she can’t help but wonder if his heart is beating as frantically as hers, if the fear or the anticipation is stronger in him right now.

Then he’s moving again, swiftly, intently, spreading her legs and bowing his head, his hands spreading her thighs and his tongue on her, and she’d arch off the desk if he wasn’t prepared for holding her down. 

“Maker’s-” she chokes off, biting her tongue to keep from screaming. It occurs to her that there might not have closed _all_ the doors leading to his office, and they already have a high chance of someone walking in if that’s the case; her scream would have most definitely brought in the guards. She can’t hold back a nervous giggle at the thought, breathless and turning into a groan.

“You sound cheerful,” Cullen mutters against her thigh, and how he manages to sound so coherent right now, she can’t fathom. She’s going to have to do something about it.

Her fingers tighten in his hair and she pulls up gently, guiding him back over her, seeking his lips again, She bites at his lower lip gently and he groans before kissing her in a way that’s no longer soft or hesitant at all, her lips tingling. She slides her hand down his pants, stroking his length, shuddering at the sound he makes. She can feel him trembling above her now, any control he was trying to retain close to snapping. Good.

There is a lot of things she’d like to do, that she’s imagined doing to him, with him, but she’s too far gone for most of them now and there is one she really needs. She trails kisses up the line of his jaw and hums wetly against his ear, while her hand moves over his cock. “I want you to take me now.”

“Evelyn,” he whispers, and he sounds like he’s begging, like he’s praying. She tugs on his hair again, making him look at her, and his eyes search her face for a long moment before he drops his forehead to hers, licking his lips. 

His hands are slow and gentle on her when he moves next, but it feels less like hesitance and more like reverence, as he spreads her legs and caresses her with his fingers, the tips entering her briefly, too briefly. She’s too wet, too hot for this, entirely too impatient, but he doesn’t give in until she’s whimpering under him, until she’s all but ready to push him off to the floor and just impale herself on him.

That would require moving, however, and her bones are liquid, her blood a molten lava. She forgot how to form words and is on her best way to lose all coherent thought, especially as finally, _finally_ he deems her ready and enters her, with a swift and deep stroke. 

She looks up at him, eyes dark and pupils blown, but still fighting for control, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. She finds her words then, and raises her head to brush her lips over his, hands moving soothingly over his back. “Just like this, love,” she mutters and raises her hips a little to punctuate her words.

It’s the first time she’s said it, not quite the phrasing but still there, even though she’s meant it for months. Maybe it’s not quite the best moment, but she wouldn’t have it any other way, and they spend too much time waiting for the right moments already. 

His mouth meets hers and he starts moving, starts _fucking her_ , and she doesn’t really care about choosing the right moments anymore, this is clearly _right_. 

Their kisses are careless now, messy, Cullen whispering something against her mouth she can’t quite make out over the ringing in her ears. Neither of them is going to last long, not with the weeks and months of waiting for this, of tethering on the brink of these.

Cullen comes inside her, hiding his face in her neck when he does, mouth hot on her skin. She’s on the edge by now, the way he whispers her name almost too much. Then, almost without delay, his hand is on her, fingers too clever, too insistent, and she’s pushed over, her voice hoarse from words she can’t even understand or hear herself, lost in this, in him.

It takes her a long time to regain… anything, really. Breath, conscious thought, power of speech. He’s draped over her, heavy but not uncomfortably so, even comforting in some way. Happiness bubbles in her chest, making her laugh breathlessly into his shoulder as she reaches out to push his hair back. It’s a right mess now, it’s amazing.

“I’m-” he says, more of a croak than anything else, his voice rough and hoarse. It takes him three more tries and he’s laughing by the time he manages: “I’m going to think of this every time I’m at my desk now,” he says in a tone of someone who’s just discovered this and doesn’t quite know what he thinks of it yet. “It’ll be a wonder if I’d get any work done.”

“I don’t know, I’d say you did quite well,” she tells him, trying for her most polite tone and ruining it by laughing again. “I’m going to really regret this in the morning,” she adds, groaning as she moves to push him away lightly and sit up. A dark flicker passes across his face and she wants to smack herself. “I meant the desk,” she says softly, touching her fingertips to his chin. “Now, is your bed any decent?”

“I’ve had no complaints,” he tells her, face straight and a glint in his eye. 

“Not bad,” she nods and stands up, picking up his coat. “I’d actually buy this if I wasn’t sure you fell asleep at your desk more often than in your bed.” She drapes the coat around herself, smoothing down the pauldrons. His gaze lingers on her in a way that clearly indicates she wasn’t the only one thinking of herself wearing the coat and nothing else. “Race you upstairs?” she asks, stepping tentatively over the glass and papers on the floor and heading for the ladder.

Cullen snorts softly and ignores the challenge, bending to pick up the rest of his clothes, and hers as well. She stops at the feet of the ladder to watch him do so and shrugs at his pointed look.

“Something on your mind?” he asks her, moving to stand behind her. He bows his head and kisses the back of her neck and she sighs contentedly. 

“There might be.”

***

“Inquisitor, a word.”

She frowns at the tone of Cullen’s voice and looks up from the map. Leliana and Josephine are filing out of the room, the look Leliana gives her indicating she’s heard it too; the fury in Cullen’s voice is something Evelyn has heard before, directed at Samson or the red templars, but she has no idea what prompted it now.

“You can have a couple of sentences, even,” she tells him with a soft smile. 

His mouth tightens into a thin line, fingers rapping against the handle of his sword. Even more serious than she expected, but what…

“Dragonslaying?” Cullen says and _oh_. She didn’t even notice he hadn’t spoken up after Leliana’s little teasing remark, that he’s gone awfully quiet during the planning of the Hissing Wastes venture. 

“That’s the word?” she asks before she stops herself and is rewarded by a glare that makes her feel like she should have been struck by lighting where she stands. She sighs and relents, leaning over the table slightly. “Alright Cullen, what is it?”

“Any reason I didn’t know about it?”

The thing is, she knew it was going to go like this. “Didn’t you? You were there for the celebrating after Crestwood, weren’t you? I distinctly remember someone who looked like you, at least.”

He doesn’t look impressed at all; she should quit while she’s ahead, probably. “I knew about the one in Crestwood, yes,” he says, his words careful and measured, voice so quiet he’s almost whispering. He must be really furious, she thinks. “And I knew about the researcher in the Western Approach, but the last I heard it amounted to destroying some traps? And now Leliana tells me… how many dragons, Evelyn?”

“Five,” she mutters.

“So, I knew about one out of five?”

“Oh, we’re counting Crestwood? Six, then,” she says and raises her hand before he can speak again. “I didn’t hide it from you, I just didn’t bring it up. You weren’t pleased after Crestwood.”

He steps forward, hands flat on the table as he glares at her across it. “It’s not about whether I was-” he shakes his head and starts again, voice hoarse. “You’re too important, Inquisitor,” he tells her, her title sounding bitter on his lips, “to run around Thedas attacking _dragons_. You can’t risk your life like that.”

“Can’t I?” she asks, something ugly twisting in her chest. An apology has been hovering on her tongue, but it burns away in the flare of anger now. It’s partly fueled by guilt, because she _has_ been avoiding bringing this up around him. But there’s another part, the one brought on by the streak of long days in Exalted Plains and in the Empris, by the pointless civil war and refugees and people with nothing but desperation and by all the problems she can’t even hope to begin to solve and yet is expected to. Somehow started to expect herself to. “How is that different than any other thing you ask me to do?”

She doesn’t mean _him_ and she knows it, he knows it, and yet he recoils all the same, like she’s just punched him.

He recovers quickly enough, the anger not so easy to dissipate, but his voice is half-breaking when he speaks. “I do everything in my power to keep you alive.”

She shrugs. “And yet, the risks must be taken and sacrifices must be made. We both know that,” she steps back from the table and crosses her arms. “We do what’s necessary.”

“Slaying dragons was necessary? I’d give you Crestwood, that thing was a menace, but we didn’t have reports of other attacks and-”

“Burned corpses don’t write reports,” she says flatly. “You should have seen the Hinterlands nest, _everything_ was on fire. But did it occur to you… Corypheus’ dragon, whatever it really is, still has the form and shape of one. It acts like a dragon, it fights like a dragon. You see no advantage in learning how to kill them, Commander?”

He looks at her silently for a moment, and she knows she’s being unfair, but then, so is he. They’ve made a fine weapon out of her, and he chooses to complain about her making use of it for this? 

“Is that the reason or the excuse?” he asks her quietly, the anger turning to ice, his voice level and steady now. 

There’s a ball of lead in her stomach, cold and heavy, and she thinks of giving in to him, of giving in to comfort and promises, but there is another dragon in the Empris and undefended villages that have suffered enough from the templars and the rifts. 

There are deep shadows on Cullen’s face, the weariness around his eyes, and she knows he knows, knew, where her scars are from, all healed by the time she makes it to Skyhold but still unmistakable; the gash from the talon next to her shoulderblade, the twin marks on her side. He’s mapped them with his fingers and mouth and never asked, because it was easier for both of them. 

It went unspoken for long enough to turn into this anger, and she can’t quite let go of the heat and neither can he.

“Is there a difference?” she says flatly and takes a step back, dropping her hands uselessly to her sides. “I should go. They’re probably getting ready now and we should be setting out.” It’s back to the Exalted Plains, on Dorian’s lead on a particularly dangerous Venatori group, but she’s sure problems will multiply by the time they get there. “Commander,” she nods and turns on her heel.

“Inquisitor,” he says, and there is a rest of the sentence to go with that and she can almost hear him biting his tongue to keep the ‘be careful’ from spilling out. 

The door closes with an unsatisfying quiet click and she’s a little disappointed; she actually wanted the satisfaction of slamming it. The discussion seems unfinished, broken off before they could truly say what they needed to.

She makes it to the Josephine’s office, another door closing too quietly behind her, and she sighs. She feels cold now, the anger melting away and leaving her empty. 

No, that’s not quite it; she’s still angry, but it’s no longer a warm flush in her chest and cheeks burning up with righteousness; it’s cold and bitter and tired. And if she walks away now, it’s going to stay like this, all the way to the Exalted Plains, and Maker knows that place is depressing enough, with the trenches and wariness. 

She leans against the doors and breathes out, shaking off Josephine’s concerned look. Then she turns around and walks back, almost colliding with Cullen two steps out of the door. 

“I just wanted-” she starts at the same time as his rushed:

“I’ve been just coming to-” he looks down at her, the corner of his mouth twisting in a half-smile. “I hoped I might still catch you.”

“I’m not apologising,” she tells him softly before stepping in and sneaking her arms around him, resting her cheek on his chest. His arms close around her immediately, instinctively, his chin on the top of her head. 

“Well, neither am I,” he mutters and it sounds like an apology anyway, quiet and tentative. He leans back a little to look at her, reaching up to her face, his thumb running softly across her cheek. “Be careful out there?” he says wryly, like he knows it’d make no difference but needs to ask anyway. 

“I always am,” she lies and moves to her tiptoes to kiss him.

***

Everything is soft and warm when she wakes up, and she’s pretty sure it decidedly _wasn’t_ when she fell asleep. Probably. She can’t quite remember that part, though she does remember the darkness; it was a little sudden.

“In my defense, it wasn’t a dragon,” Cullen says from somewhere to her left and she strains her head to look at him, blinking against the brightness of the room. “That’s what you said,” he tells her, voice filled with exasperation as he moves to sit on the bed and hesitates a little before helping her up to a seating position. 

She closes her eyes and lets her head rests against the pillows. “Well, I meant it. I think it was a despair demon who, ironically, got lucky.”

He snorts before he stops himself and she holds back a grin, shifting a little to rest her head on his shoulder, to lean into him, arm draped over his stomach. 

“So, the dragon you’ve fought just before encountering the rift?”

“One of the many contributing factors,” she says breezily, then sighs. “How long was I out for?”

“Two days, give or take. You drifted in and out, but the healers said you needed rest. I think sleeping potions were involved to help you get it.”

“Explains why my mouth feels like something died in it,” she mutters before she can think better of it and grimaces at herself. Cullen’s lips are twitching when he dips his head to kiss her lightly.

“Quite terrible,” he tells her and she thinks of punching his shoulder but to be honest, has no energy to lift her arm high enough, so she settles for rolling her eyes.

“You don’t sound as angry as I expected you to.”

“I moved past that stage,” he says and rubs at his eyes tiredly. She strains her neck a little to look at him, at the tightness around his eyes and mouth, the lines set hard. His eyes are a little red, lips dry; she felt that before when they brushed hers. It’s one of the bad days, and he’s trying to hide it for her sake, again.

There’s a mountain of paperwork on her desk, and she’s pretty sure it’s not hers, even from this far away. His coat is draped over the chair. 

“They said someone should watch over you, just in case,” he says, following her gaze, his tone a little guilty, uncertain. “I brought the work with me, I hope you don’t mind that-”

“You could just move in,” she says softly. She didn’t intend to, but there it is. “Your quarters barely deserve the name,” she adds teasingly, an old argument.

“I’ve had no complaints.”

“I complain frequently,” she tells him. “But you distract me every time. You are also avoiding the answer, don’t think I didn’t notice that,” she teases. She’s pretty sure she knows what the answer is going to be, anyway. 

“It wouldn’t be-”

“Cullen, if the next word out of your mouth is _proper_ , I swear to the Maker, I will have to remind you of all the things you’ve done to me that weren’t proper at all.”

“A poorer incentive I’ve never heard,” he mutters, kissing her forehead. “The point of setting up my office where I have, and my quarters with it, is so that I could be reached and approached by all my soldiers when they needed it. I wouldn’t exactly want them to feel equally at home knocking on your doors at any time of day and night,” he says and draws her closer. “That’s not a no. That’s a someday.”

“In the after?” she asks softly and he nods, leaning into her palm when she places her hand to his cheek. “I really dislike it when you’re right,” she tells him and presses her thumb to his mouth. “You were, you know? About the dragons.”

“I know,” he mutters, but there’s no smugness accompanying it, he sounds almost apologetic. “And so were you, and it wasn’t my place to question you. Any advantage against Corypheus is worth investigating and I.. I ask too much of you, sometimes. We all do.”

She shakes her head and brushes his hair away from where it’s fallen out of place. She cards her fingers through it and messes it up even more, half on purpose if she’s to be honest. “Do you want me to…” she starts, fingers to his temple, and he looks at her searchingly.

“When they brought you, you were wounded and exhausted.”

“Much better now, must be the sleeping potions,” she says truthfully. She must have slept for ages. “May I?” 

He nods in agreement and closes his eyes, sighing in relief when cold spreads from her fingertips, seeping into his skin. It won’t cure the headache, but it will make it bearable, they’ve discovered. She shifts to settle in more comfortably against him, closing her eyes. 

“You know,” she mutters, lacing her fingers with his, “you ask too little of me, sometimes.”

***

It’s been an eerie day, one in the string of such days, the uneasiness getting worse with each passing one. The air is stilted and heavy, like it’s begging for the release of a storm, and no one can say the weather doesn’t have a dramatic sense of its own.

Evelyn isn’t sure if it contributes to the general mood in Skyhold, or is everyone just keenly aware they’re nearing the end, whatever it might be. Even if they win (and she tries to be sure and keep her voice steady when she says ‘when’ out loud instead of the ‘if’ but never quite manages to sound completely sincere), it’ll be an end of sorts; the Inquisition was created for a reason and whatever it might become, it’ll have to be reshaped. She’ll lose some people; if not to Corypheus then to their lives, their pursuits. 

The best case scenario is bittersweet. And she’s not the only one who knows this; yesterday and today especially have been filled with conversation that seem awfully final; last words, last goodbyes. Some of those feel like last rites, even, like an echo of a eulogy, theirs or hers. 

In the stilted air she feels half-buried already.

She’s almost afraid to look for Cullen, not sure if she can take this from him as well, but it’s harder not seeing him and she’s pretty sure he’s had an even worse day, or a worse week, spending hours on end talking to Samson. Whatever they’re saying has a grim effect on him, exhaustion etched into the lines on his face, his gaze avoiding hers, fingers grasping hers too tight. Nightmares, worse than before. 

She finds him in the chapel, ready to offer comfort, but instead is offered a prayer and a kiss and all the luck he can spare and some of which he probably shouldn’t.

Evelyn laces their fingers together and tugs at his hand, ignoring the weak protests of work waiting to be done. “It’ll keep,” she mutters and doesn’t let go of him all the way to his quarters. At this point most people have given up on gossiping about them; they’re old news, no matter how Cullen seems to like to pretend they’re still keeping this quiet.

They don’t speak until they’re in his quarters, until she’s pushing his coat off his shoulders and tugging at his gloves impatiently. Until she’s undoing her hair and he’s carding his fingers through it, until she’s fumbling with the lacings of her shirt and he isn’t much help, fingers shaking slightly. 

“Tomorrow,” she says quietly, pulling his shirt over his head and placing a hand on his chest; familiar pulse under her palm. “we need to make the plans regarding the move on Corypheus. We’ve been waiting long enough.” Cullen pulls back a little, like he’s already running preparations in his head, and she reaches out to stop him. He obliges like he always does, kneeling on the bed next to her. “It’ll keep, Commander,” she tells him softly.

“You have the worst ideas for pillow talk,” he mutters and lets her pull him down to lay on the bed beside her. She shrugs half heartedly and shifts closer, burying her face in his neck, his skin warm against her lips. 

He kisses her forehead and her eyelids, coaxes her to look up and kisses her gently, for long enough she gets dizzy. He kisses her like they could stay in this bed forever, like there’s nothing beyond this, and she lets herself believe it for now. 

It’s not exactly pillow talk, but he’s much better at it than she is, turns out.

Later, when she’s half asleep, draped over his chest, she can hear the rain against the half-repaired roof.

***

If she were to be honest, she didn’t imagine the aftermath would be something like _this_.

To be _completely_ honest, she didn’t try and imagine the aftermath in great detail at all, just in case. She’s not exactly superstitious, never has been, but her luck has been awful and amazing in equal degrees in recent months, so it could pay to be a little more cautious.

As it is, the aftermath is just… another day’s work. Once the dust has settled, after the battle _and_ after the celebratory party, it’s just one thing after another; news of last remaining rifts, remnants of the Venatori to root out, and an endless cavalcade of nobles arriving in Skyhold now that it is good to be seen supporting the Inquisition, now that it’s safe.

She sounds slightly bitter, but that’s mostly because she’s been stuck in meetings like this since early morning and Josephine insisted on a slightly more formal regalia than her usual. She didn’t even find it in herself to argue, she had lessons about appearances drilled into her when she was a child.

She’ll have to dust off all the other lessons about courtly manners; Josephine and Leliana expect even more visitors during the next few weeks, and there are endless invitations pouring in as well. Not to mention that now that she’s relented and deemed it safe enough, her parents plan a visit as well and if Josephine doesn’t watch herself, her mother might take over the whole party planning and invitations managing business, Maker help her. 

It all makes her almost miss the demons and the darkspawn and the red templars. Well, maybe not the red templars, but the feeling of doing something to help people. 

Of course, this is helpful, too, she tells herself. They’ve moved to build the Inquisition beyond its initial purpose, to make it a force capable of changing Thedas, and that takes work and sometimes that work is plastering on a smile and remembering the names. Hopefully, maybe the exhilaration and novelty will wear off soon and they’ll be left to do their work. 

There are six more meetings on her agenda and then she’ll be able to steal away for an hour, maybe two. Now though, she smiles earnestly again. “Lady du Maurier, we haven’t seen each other since the Empress’ ball. How are your daughters?”

That predictably launches a tirade on the accomplishments and exploits of her daughters, which is precisely what Evelyn has aimed for. With Lady du Maurier it’s enough to set her off and then nod in the right places, which is when she pauses for the briefest of moments to take a breath. With her fierce pride in her daughters and little other concerns, the good Lady is one of Evelyn’s favourite Orlesian nobles. If she had any favourite Orlesian nobles, that is. 

Bryony is hovering on the edge of her vision, her mouth set into a tight line; she has purpose written on her face and is clearly waiting her moment to speak without interrupting the noblewoman. It could take a while.

She waits for the pause and waves Bryony over, apologising to Lay du Maurier.

Bryony bows promptly. “Apologies, My Lady, but the Commander has an urgent matter to discuss with you,” she says. “Can’t wait,” she adds apologetically and evelyn waves her hand towards one of the guard who wordlessly bows and heads out in search of Josephine. 

She apologises profusely and nods at Josephine, who’s already cheerfully chattering to the nobles, as she follows Bryony out of the hall and into the courtyard, rushing down the stairs.

“No need to break your neck in hurry, My Lady,” Bryony says, sounding amused, and Evelyn turns at the bottom at the stairs, looking up at her suspiciously. Bryony is one of the most unflappable soldiers they have, neither prone to exaggeration nor likely to dismiss things seemingly insignificant. And yet, she’s behaving rather strangely now.

“Urgent, you said?”

“No time to waste, according to the Commander,” she says flatly, but she looks like she’s holding back a smile, and Evelyn has a feeling she’s being conspired against. “Said to head for the grove nearby, do you know it?”

She is most definitely being conspired against. 

“My Lady,” Bryony says, and the amusement is clear now as she hides the grin by bowing before walking away. Evelyn rolls her eyes at her retreating back, then sighs and continues on her way; she has to admit she’s rather curious now.

She finds Cullen in the grove, sprawled on the grass and with his coat discarded, and she crosses her arms looking down at him. “Isn’t this the other way around, usually? Me pulling you away from your duties, kicking and screaming?”

“I never kicked,” Cullen tells her and reaches out, beckoning her to join him. She grins and obliges, smoothing her skirt out of the way and settling in comfortably against his chest. “I thought you might need a break.”

“Excellent planning, Commander. And what is your strategy for when Josephine finds out?”

“I warned her,” he says breezily and shrugs at her look. “I might have to do penance but it’s nothing she wouldn’t browbeat me into anyway.”

“I appreciate your sacrifices,” she tells him seriously, straining his head to kiss him. “So, what are your plans now that your first move succeeded so well?”

“No plans,” he says firmly. “A whole afternoon of nothing to do.”

It’s an awful idea and neither of them can quite probably afford that much of a break. He’s playing up the carefree mood for her now, she’s pretty sure the tightness around his mouth means he’s already feeling the pangs of guilt for stealing away for this. She’s unbearably grateful that he would, for her. 

“Sounds perfect,” he tells him and sets out to pay him back by distracting him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr if you're of mind: realitycheckbounced. 
> 
> Bits and pieces of this story were inspired by discussions with doomedanyway of the tumblr fame.


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